


With a Little Help from My Friends

by Grim_Giggles



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:36:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grim_Giggles/pseuds/Grim_Giggles
Summary: What if, after the events of Swan Song, Dean and Cas actually TALKED to each other?Coda to 5/22.





	With a Little Help from My Friends

CICERO, INDIANA

DECEMBER 2010

Dean looks up at the clear Indiana sky, taking a long, deep breath, then surveys the now leafless grass. He feels a little absurdly proud of how empty the lawn is. He is the leaf-catcher, the rake-master, and no leaf is safe from the long reach of his stupid rake, except for those ones that the wind just blew down, because fuck it. Can’t things just stay _finished_ for five God-damn seconds?

He swallows down a swell of irrational anger and tosses the rake aside. It’s been two weeks since Sam… since he lost Sam. He’s been doing anything he can to keep himself busy around Lisa’s house, cleaning gutters, raking leaves, scrubbing grout. Hell, he built a freaking book shelf yesterday, because Ben has piles of graphic novels stacked next to his bed like an alien city (Dean has an image in his head of a boy’s room with white shelves, overflowing with - whatever, books); it’s sitting in the garage, waiting for a first layer of paint. He’s worked and worked until Lisa called him to bed, trying to get too tired to even dream.

It isn’t working.

He mutters an angry curse and lashes out at the nearest object. The metal bin tips over, the lid goes pinwheeling across the lawn, and a pile of leaves spills out onto the grass. Fuck it. It’s not like he wasn’t going to be back out here tomorrow, raking the exact same spots, because there is an endless number of leaves and this job will never truly be finished. He runs his hand down his face, trying to compose himself.

Fuck it.

He closes his eyes. “Hey, Cas,” he prays, then hesitates. What do you say after you save the world and don’t speak for two weeks? “Uh… I know you’ve probably got your hands full, so I’ll just leave this on Angel Voicemail or whatever…” He works his jaw for a minute. “Just thought I’d check in,” he finally grits out. Then his voice drops to a low murmur. “Truth is… I could use someone to talk to. I think Sam would want-“ he cuts himself off, snapping his jaws shut, then continuing after a shaky breath. “So, you know, whenever you’ve got time…”

“I have time now.”

Dean opens his eyes to find Castiel, Angel of the Lord, standing totally at ease in Lisa’s back yard, hands thrust into his coat pockets, as though he’s been there the whole time.

“Hello Dean,” says the angel, looking at him in that - that way he has, that makes Dean’s skin crawl and his heart beat too fast. “What is wrong?”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. He’s forgotten, in the mere two weeks since they last spoke, the effect that Castiel’s sudden presence tends to have. There is something he can’t quite describe (captivating, terrifying, beautiful) about him that makes Dean’s pulse quicken and his thoughts freeze, so that all he can do for a moment is stare into his brilliant blue eyes, glowing from their depths with divine grace.

He swallows. “Wrong?” he echoes, rebooting his train of thought.

Cas looks pointedly at the overturned bin. “You seem upset.”

“Oh, that’s…” Dean dismisses the mess with a wave and shrugs, going for nonchalance. “I gotta be honest, Cas,” he says, trying to change the subject, because now that it comes to it, he can’t bring himself to even _think_ the words. “I’m a little surprised you came.”

“Why?” Castiel asks, turning his full, breath-taking attention back on Dean. “You called me.”

Dean looks down to hide the wave of embarrassed gratitude this matter-of-fact answer evokes. “I just figured, with you being the new big man upstairs and everything, you’d be a little busy,” he says with a shrug, looking back at him. “So, what, you got ‘em all toeing the line already?”

Cas’ face falls and he frowns at the grass under his feet as if it did something wrong.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Dean says. “What’s wrong, trouble in Paradise?”

“There has been a… predictable development, which I nevertheless did not see coming,” Cas admits.

“And?” Dean urges.

Cas sighs. “And… my first instinct was to come to you,” he says. “But when I saw how content you were, I found it galling to contemplate disrupting the peace you’ve built here.” He glanced again at the scattered leaves, the overturned bin, the lid on the other side of the lawn. “On the other hand… perhaps I’m missing something?”

Dean looks up at the sky once more. What can he say? _Well, Cas, I can’t sleep and sometimes I think about killing my girlfriend_ , is way too on-the-nose for him. _Nothing a bottle of whiskey can’t fix_ , is bound to get a negative reaction. _I see dead people_ , would go over Cas’ head and be a waste of a great line. _Nope, all good,_ is exactly the kind of bare-faced lie he would have told Sam, once upon a time. But Sam would have known it was a lie. Hell, Sam would have known exactly what it was that Dean didn’t want to or didn’t know how to say, and known exactly what buttons to push to get Dean to finally snap and talk about it. But he didn’t have Sam; all he had was this flying monkey who - for some reason - dropped everything just because Dean called.

_I did it, all of it, for you._

“Dean.”

Cas’ voice cuts into his miserable, mixed-up thoughts of what he’s lost and what he’s gained.

“Please talk to me. Isn’t that why you called?”

Why doesn’t Cas just read his thoughts or whatever he used to do in the beginning when he would stare into him and call his bullshit without thinking? And then he remembers he, Dean, told him to stop doing that. Commanded him to stop. He sighs. He’s going to need a drink for this.

“You want a beer?” he asks, turning towards the house. He feels Cas follow him inside after a moment.

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, pulling the fridge open and grabbing one of the cheap bottles he’d gotten the day before. He spends a few minutes fiddling with the bottle-opener, avoiding his friend’s piercing gaze for as long as he can before taking a swig and letting out another long sigh.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” he eventually says, his voice soft and rasping. He can feel Cas scrutinizing him.

“Do what?” Cas asks, softening his voice to match Dean’s.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, struggling with the hell-scape of self-hatred and anxiety formed by his writhing thoughts.

“This whole…” he gestures helplessly around the kitchen, at the plants in the window above the sink, the refrigerator covered in artwork and the latest report card, the string of icicle Christmas lights overhead and the cinnamon-scented candle on the table. “This whole normal thing,” he finishes. “It’s - I - I miss it, Cas,” he finally manages. “I miss the freakin’ Apocalypse.”

He doesn’t look at Cas, but he can picture his puzzled frown perfectly.

“I don’t understand.”

“I haven’t killed anything in two weeks, and I’m buggin’ out about it,” Dean says through gritted teeth. “I feel like one of those sons of bitches I’ve hunted. Like, if I don’t kill something soon, I’m gonna shrivel up and die.”

There’s more than that, Dean knows, but he can’t bring himself to say those things. How he wakes up in a cold sweat every night, sometimes crying for Sam. How Lisa and Ben look at him, nothing but pity in their eyes, and it makes him sick of himself. How it already feels empty.

Dean slumps into a seat at the table. There is a profound silence between them for a long time, and Dean feels like he is drowning in it. He rubs his face and takes long pulls from his beer.

Finally, Cas moves. He sits down across from Dean, and when Dean looks up, the angel captures his gaze. It’s almost like being hypnotized, and Dean used to fear that Cas would compel him to do something against his will, but now he knows angels can’t do that, and he trusts that Cas wouldn’t.

It’s over almost as soon as it begins. Cas blinks and his mouth turns down.

“I think I understand,” he says, looking away. “You have been a warrior all your life, Dean.”

Dean scoffs, going back to his beer and trying to dispel the chills he gets whenever Cas does his soul-searching thing. “Tell me about it.”

“I mean… the hunt, the fight, that is your ‘normal,’” Cas amends. “And now you are trying to jump from a war into a completely different kind of life with no…” he searches for the right words. “No debriefing or transitional period. It’s no wonder you feel the way you do.”

Dean licks his lips, staring back at Cas and trying to understand his point. “Are you saying…” he ventures, “are you saying I have some kind of P.T.S.D.?”

“Possibly,” Cas says with a shrug. “Whatever you call it, it seems natural to me.”

Dean’s ears are ringing in his head.

“Natural?” he echoes, giving Cas a pleading look.

Cas meets his eyes again, and this time Dean can feel him digging around in his soul, piecing together the fragments there to make a shape that he comprehends. After a few seconds (or longer - Dean sort of loses track in the infinite blue), his expression breaks into an understanding smile.

“There is nothing wrong with you, Dean. You are damaged, true, but not… what you fear. What you feel is normal.”

This helps. Dean doesn’t exactly believe it, because since when is anything in his life actually normal? But it helps, because this is what he wants, to move into this magical land of _normal_ and _nice_ and _ordinary_ , so he latches on to the idea that he might be closer than he thought. There is nothing really wrong with him. Nothing that can’t be fixed.

“Thanks,” he mutters.

Cas’ smile widens, which makes him feel better still. Maybe he’s not so bad, if someone like Cas can smile at him like that.

“So,” he says after a second too many, clearing his throat, “what was that, uh, ‘development’ you mentioned?”

Cas sighs and his smile fades. “Raphael.”

Dean freezes. “Shit,” he says. “Forgot about him.”

“As did I,” grumbles the angel. “He did not forget about us, though. I returned to Heaven to bring the message of free will to my brothers, but Raphael was already there. He claimed leadership of the Host.”

“Son of a bitch,” Dean growls.

“It is his right as the only remaining archangel,” Cas reminds him. “And, given the circumstances, he was gracious. He did not incinerate me on the spot for what we did to him. Instead, he offered me clemency, if I would acknowledge his claim.”

“You told him to shove it, right?”

“He also promised not to visit his wrath on you or your family,” Cas adds quietly, studying the floor. “With those terms, it was tempting to capitulate.”

Dean feels a chill pass through him; he clenches his jaw to hide a shiver of fear, but also to bite down on his renewed rage, because of fucking _course_. How could he have thought he was out? He was number one on Heaven _and_ Hell’s Most Wanted list, and he’d thought he could just park the Impala and hide that part of his life with a dustcover. And now he’d actually put Lisa and Ben in danger, which was even worse.

Still. “Cas, tell me you didn’t,” he pleads.

Cas sighs. “I asked for time, and he gave it to me. He even allowed me to address the others, which at first confused me. Then, when I tried to - to explain that they had a choice, that we no longer had to merely follow orders, I realized what he surely must have already known; they cannot understand free will. When I tried to explain it to them, I couldn’t. To tell the truth,” he confesses, “I’m not sure I understand it, either. But I know that I have it.”

“Good.”

“And yet…” Cas hesitates. “I don’t know what to do with it. I must choose, again, between obedience and rebellion, though I thought I had already won this struggle. I took my resurrection as a sign that I was in the right, but now I am not so sure. And on top of all this, Crowley wants -“

“Woah,” Dean interrupts, “Crowley? You never mentioned him.”

“He somehow knows about Raphael,” Cas growls. “I would like to smite him into oblivion, but he claims he has a way to defeat Raphael once and for all. I see no other way to demonstrate free will and protect you at the same time.”

“No,” Dean says flatly, setting his bottle down on the counter a little too hard. “No, Cas, just - it’s not worth it, all right?”

“But Raphael -“

“No, Cas!” he repeats loudly. “ _Nothing_ justifies shady deals with demons. Especially Crowley.”

Cas frowns at him. “You are not exactly in a position -“

“Damn it, Cas! Just listen to me!”

Dean takes a steadying breath, trying to regain control of the hysteric note in his voice. Castiel is watching him with a raised brow.

“Just listen, okay?” he says. “I know I don’t have a great record in this area, but that’s why you have to listen to me, because I _know_. No matter what you think is at stake, a deal like that is bound to go bad. Crowley will screw you over. Understand?”

Cas deflates, but nods.

“Good,” Dean exhales. “Now, don’t worry about me. I’ve still got that chicken scratch on my ribs, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you have a way to lay low? Stop - transmitting - or whatever it is you do?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Dean takes a long pull of his beer. “So, as long as you’re off Angel Radio whenever you’re here, I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

“That is an extremely optimistic outlook,” Cas mumbles. “What about Raphael?”

Dean shrugs. “What about him?” At Cas’ exasperated expression, he holds up his hands and elaborates, “Look, I get it, big bad ninja turtle is probably cooking up something really nasty. But we don’t know what, and you’re not going back there to find out, ‘cause he’ll fry you extra crispy, so for now, let’s just deal with the mess in front of us.”

Cas huffs and sits down heavily in a kitchen chair. “I will take a beer now,” he says. Dean grins and pulls one out of the fridge for him, inwardly marveling when Cas pops off the cap and crushes it into a tiny jagged ball, then tosses it into the trash without looking. The angel looks up at him, takes a swig, then licks his lips thoughtfully. “What will you do, then?”

“I’m gonna do what I promised Sam,” Dean replies, setting his now-empty bottle on the counter and opening another before settling down across the small kitchen table from Cas. “Barbecues. Baseball games. Christmas dinner with Lisa’s family.” He tries and fails not to grimace. “What about you?”

“I have no idea. When I came back, my thoughts were mainly with my brothers. They still are, but…” Cas slouches, resting his head in one open palm. “What can I do now?”

He looks so helpless that Dean has to suppress the urge to reach out and pat his arm. Instead, he shrugs and asks, “What do you want to do?”

Cas gives him a puzzled look.

“Seriously,” Dean persists. “You want to understand free will? You want them to? You gotta get out there and show them. Do what you want.”

Cas stares at him. Then, in a low voice, he says, “That… makes an astonishing amount of sense.”

Dean pulls a sarcastic sneer. This makes Cas laugh, _really_ laugh, a surprised, full, nose-wrinkling guffaw, and Dean can’t help grinning back. He feels more tension sliding away, and they sit in the comfortable, relieved silence for a few minutes, before Cas sits up and breaks it again.

“Dean?”

“What’s up, Buddy?”

“…What is a ninja turtle?”


End file.
